Care
by corellian-smuggler
Summary: When Leia comes down with the flu, Han is determined to take care of her. Written for Mermaid 32/Swimmergirl71. Extremely fluffy and sappy: you've been warned.


A/N: This story is written for the wonderful Swimmergirl71/Mermaid 32, who is feeling under the weather! I hope you get better soon, my friend!

xxx

Han sighed heavily. He loved Leia, he did. He loved and admired her—her bravery, her strength, her determination; her fierce belief in democracy and in freedom, her selflessness, her zealous quest to make the galaxy better, her innate sense of compassion and mercy—her intelligent justice, her utter faith in what was right—her vision of it and her tenacity in executing that vision: these things awed and inspired Han, as much as they endeared her to him. Not in a patronizing way—not, oh, how cute, his Princess and her little pet projects, oh no. More like, ah, Leia, how she refuses to admit defeat, how she can see a world so ugly and find a thing worth saving, people worth helping! Leia and her goodness—Leia who was not corrupt, Leia who refused to compromise her decency and humanity, Leia who had such _faith_. How she had awoken his own—damn he loved her.

And Han loved her stubbornness, too, and even sometimes her haughtiness—how on Hoth she'd drawn herself to her full height, lifted that regal chin: _"I don't know what you're talking about, Flyboy."_ How that had driven him nuts, but dammit if he still didn't love that part of her too. And her brilliant mind, her striking intelligence, incomparable intellect, hells. And when she used it to her advantage, to see her outsmart—!

Oh, and he loved her humor, her dry quips, how she giggled in moments of delight and silliness, her penchant for arch, dry sarcasm, her effortless employment of that big brain in clever hilarity, in disarming levity. He loved Leia in laughter; he loved her in her sparring wit. And then there was her softness—oh, her softness. Han loved that maybe best of all. He loved her sincere and gentle kindness, he loved her in her vulnerability. He loved the pleasure she took in nature, loved her nurturing and instinctive thoughtfulness, and her tenderness with him, the warm care that had almost surprised him at first—gentle fingers combing through his hair, or rubbing his back. He even loved her for her fears, for her weaknesses, her flaws—the things she didn't like in herself. Gods, he loved her. He loved her for all of her. To the galaxy she was regal and relatable in turn, fierce and intimidating and graceful and unassuming at once. And it wasn't dishonest—there was nothing false in her. But what the galaxy saw was incomplete.

Han though? Han, unbelievably, had been given Leia in her wholeness. To his astonishment sometimes still, he was privy to her private entirety, had learned all that lay beneath her staunch sturdy armor—and the brittle mask of days past was long gone. Yes, Han knew and loved all of Leia, her passion and her spirit, her grief and her healing, her courage and her truth. All of it revealed to him, shared with him, and kriffing hells, how he loved her.

But much as he loved her—devotedly, unwaveringly, steadfastly—Han could not deny:

His wife was the worst damn patient in the galaxy.

"Get! In! Bed!" he snapped, after having caught her out of bed for the third time.

The first time had been the worst—there she was so stuffed up she could hardly breathe, throat so raw she could barely speak, fever blazing and chills wracking her body, and where had be found her?

"Your Worship!" he'd barked, equal parts shocked (at the sheer _audacity_ ), entirely unsurprised, outraged, and amused. "The hell do you think you're doing?"

Leia had glanced up at him in horror, startled and guilty, but this had quickly given way to self-righteous defiance. Han probably would have laughed at her if he hadn't been worrying about her—she'd looked completely insane. He'd headed towards the bedroom to bring her a mug of tea—extra Naboo honey for her poor sore throat—and had found their bed to be empty. When his check of the 'fresher had also revealed a distinct lack of his wife, Han had known exactly where she'd gone. Admittedly, the way he'd thrown open the door to her home office like some obsessive crime show detective barging in to catch a suspect red-handed had been a bit dramatic, but there she was.

Leia was curled into a ball in her swiveling office chair, so unwell as to appear pathetic. Her braids were a wild disaster, in places frizzy and escaping—lopsided on her head—in others matted with sweat to her clammy, pale skin. Her nose was pink from the chafe of so many tissues, her face sallow and her eyes watery. The funniest thing to Han, though, had been her dress and armament. Leia had been bundled up so thickly she appeared to be some kind of princess-shaped blob. Her favorite thermal pajama top, then _Han's_ warmest thermal over that, her thick gray bathrobe, and cocooned around her, the fluffy white blanket from their living room. Before her on her elegant transparisteel-topped desk, surrounding her big sleek computer monitor, had been an array of sick-time necessities: the box of tissues he'd left on the bedside table, a bag of throat lozenges, the bottle of 'DayRelief: Non-Drowsy Cold and Flu [Human Formula]' medicine, a pillow, her comm, a half-empty glass of water, and, inexplicably, her cosmetic bag. Her feet were pulled up onto the chair with her, inside her blanket cocoon, which encapsulated her entire body save for her head and one pale little hand that was tapping weakly over the keys of her keypad, no doubt typing some memo or another.

As exasperated as he'd been, Han couldn't have helped his sudden burst of fondness as he'd pictured Leia premeditating and executing this absurd escape to her office. He'd imagined her listening intently to the sounds of him in the kitchen, making her tea, the way she'd surely donned the fuzzy bathrobe like senatorial gown or tactical gear, how she must have pattered around their room in frantic, sneaky determination, grabbing up tissue box and medicine bottle—her little weapons—girding herself with blanket—fierce little shield. Stepping into her warm, fleece lined, nerf hide slippers and darting from the bedroom with her supplies in tow: relentless little rebel, ready for battle, off on her mission.

Hell, maybe she hadn't darted—maybe she'd marched.

From behind her desk Leia had tried to inform him with typical stubborn verve and righteous self-assurance, usual cool composure and a dash of fire, that she had important matters requiring her attention—monitor her inbox, finish her proposal, review her notes on the upcoming conference, check the outcome of the peace negotiations on planet such-and-such, read the report from ambassador so-and-so, all the stuff Han knew she'd tried to get up to.

Instead she'd rasped out a miserable, faint entreaty, affecting in the way she'd so clearly failed to muster the volume and force she'd wanted:

"I have... to work, Han," she'd practically pleaded. Her head had lolled to one side against the back of her chair. Little sycophant obviously delirious, but determined nonetheless.

"Not a chance, sweetheart," he'd shaken his head. He'd darted forward and had started gathering up all her little provisions. It was an indication of how sick she was that Leia hadn't even tried to stop him. She'd simply glared, hazy and disapproving, as he'd snatched up the tissues and all the rest.

"No work, Worshipfulness," he'd repeated. "Doc's orders. You're s'posed to stay in bed and rest, remember?"

Leia's pout had been almost comical, though Han knew it had been entirely real.

"I don't want to rest," she'd moaned. "I have things to do."

Han had offered his best show of sympathy to cajole her back to bed.

"I know Sweetheart, but sooner you rest up and get better, the sooner you can get back to work. Now c'mon, you should be sleeping."

"Han," she'd huffed, and between her stuffy nose and sore throat, she'd sounded like a 90-year-old Tatooinian Honking Bird. "Honestly, I feel much better."

Raising an eyebrow, Han had set her effects back down on the desk and lifted his hand to her sweaty forehead. Her eyes had gone all big and hopeful, like she'd suddenly thought that maybe, just maybe, she was going to get away with her little plan.

Han had almost hated to be the bearer of bad news.

"You're burnin' up baby," he'd told her, grinning at her abrupt scowl. He'd picked up all the stuff again and had cocked his head at the door. "Now c'mon, get that royal butt back in bed."

Shivering with fever but somehow still managing to appear dignified in her defeat—the haughty, icy soldier, captured by the enemy and marched off to custody, apprehended but resolute in the rightness of her mission, godsdamn, she was too kriffing much, leave it to Leia to treat the flu like an exercise in rebellion, like some oppressive force against which to fight, _hells_ where'd he find this woman—Leia opened her blanket and made to stand.

Han had gasped in indignation.

"Hey!" he'd snapped, glaring into her lap. "Little traitor!"

From her place curled up against Leia's torso, Roxi, their pet Rixx cat, answered Han with a look of such beguiling innocence that he wanted to shout his disbelief.

"Don't you look at me like that," he'd growled, while Leia had adjusted the fluffy blanket more securely over her shoulders and arms and had stood, Roxi clutched firmly against her chest. "You're supposed to be on my side, here, you conniving ball of fur!"

"She was keeping me warm," Leia had rasped smugly, as though their cat's allegiance only proved that Leia was in the right.

"Yeah, you know why you're cold? Cause you got a fever, Princess! Move it!"

Leia had compressed her lips and offered him a glare, but had allowed herself to be steered back out of the office. In the hallway, though, she'd leaned heavily into his side as they'd walked.

Han had set her back up with all her necessities again in the bedroom, arranging them once more on Leia's bedside table with care, while Leia had looked on suspiciously. He'd made a big show of tucking her under the covers, topping her off with the white fluffy blanket, and leaving the tissues on the mattress beside her for easy access.

"The heck was the makeup for?" he asked, frowning as he set it down on the nightstand, too—not its proper place, he was well aware.

"In case I needed to take a holocommunication, or holo in on a meeting—"

Han looked over at her in incredulity.

"I think I look a bit pale."

For several moments Han processed the fact that Leia had put such thought into her clandestine work attempt that she'd anticipated wanting to put makeup on to look presentable on the off chance that she had to project a hologram. Han couldn't decide if this foresight was an impressive result of her general brilliance or else a rather telling indication of just how sick and out of it she was: what had she been planning to do? Brush some of that pretty, light powder on her clammy face and comm in on a meeting with Mon Mothma with her hair lookin' like a Mynock's nest, adorned in her blanket-smock, surrounded by used tissues? Ah, hell, his princess, his wife.

Han had shaken his head.

Leia had seemed to settle into the bed in resignation, sighing gratefully as he'd fluffed her pillow and pulled the blankets up to her chin, leaning into his hand when he'd laid it against her face again, feeling her temperature. High enough that it was definitely a fever, he'd figured, but not so high he'd been alarmed enough to grab the scanner for an exact reading.

"Alright honey," he'd murmured as he'd leaned down to kiss her forehead, all sternness melted away in the face of her very obvious suffering, the way she'd burrowed into the bed, hell. He'd reached for the mug of tea he'd left before, now only lukewarm after the drawn out process of luring his patient out of the home office. "'M gonna go heat your tea back up, alright?"

"Mhmm."

"And you're gonna stay in here and rest, right?"

A tired nod—she'd seemed only half-conscious already.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Han had headed back to the kitchen.

The second time he'd caught her out of bed had been twenty minutes later, when he'd been getting started on making her a nice soup—hearty Corellian recipe, sure to fill her belly and warm her right up, he'd figured, plus it'd feel nice going down her throat, and she'd feel a bit better with some proper nourishment, by his reckoning—Chewie had commed to stress the importance of that, like he was worried Han wouldn't have been feeding his sick mate enough to sustain her. Han had only rolled his eyes.

He'd turned to rummage through the refrigerator unit for the lotam roots—he'd add extra, they were Leia's favorite part—when he'd heard the distinct sound of rustling in the living room. Head half in the fridge, he'd gone still, listening. Could'a been just Roxi, he'd reasoned, but—

 _Achoo!_

Given away by her own sneeze.

Han found her frowning down at their kaffe table, stripped of bathrobe and socks now.

"Hey!" he'd cried, "why're you up?"

Leia had turned crazed eyes on him. Her fever meds had obviously been working; she was practically drenched in sweat.

"I'm looking," she frowned, "for my datapad."

Han stared at her.

"What for?" he demanded.

In her illness, she was unable to conceal the guilty expression that appeared on her face.

"Leia, for sith's sake, no! No working! The hell we go to the medcenter for if you were just planning on ignoring what they said?"

Leia had turned into him, then, and rested her face against his chest. Han genuinely hadn't been sure if she'd actually been seeking comfort from him, or if her head just felt too heavy to keep up on her own. Either way, he'd lifted his hands to her arms to run a soothing course from shoulder to elbow and back.

"I just want to check my messages," she'd choked.

"Sweetheart, checking your messages means answering all the messages, and worrying about what all the messages say, and next thing I know you're gonna be hopping in the speeder and hightailing it to the senate to handle some crisis—"

"I won't, I swear—"

"Leia," he'd sighed. "C'mon, you got the Gargon flu, you got a fever, your heads killing you, your throats killing you, your sinuses are killing you—you're sick!"

"I know," she'd moaned, finally admitting it, sounding almost near to tears. "I hate it."

Han had sighed and kissed her shamble of braided hair. Leia _really_ hated being sick—a control thing, he'd long ago realized. She wasn't actually so compulsively obsessed with her work that she was incapable of taking a single day off; rather it was not wanting to face the fact that she was unwell, that she couldn't be strong all the time, that denial and ferocity couldn't stave off all weakness, that she needed to be taken care of, needed help, that there was nothing to do but let it run its course—out of her hands. Powerless. Distantly Han had wondered if she'd been like that as a kid, or if it had come about during the rebellion, a symptom of her grief and subsequent manic desperation to fight back—distraction, revenge, purpose, cause, penitence in brutal, almost self-destructive labor: all things she'd needed back then, all of it he'd witnessed.

"I know you do, Sweetheart."

At least now she actually let him take care of her—she'd been so stubborn on Hoth she'd refused help until she'd actually fainted from fever at her post. Han had practically force-fed her broth and tea and crackers on the Falcon—medic's orders. Into her hair, Han had suddenly grinned, remembering how on Hoth she'd bemoaned in her fever how upset she was that he was seeing her like that.

" _I don't want to be here," convulsing with chills._

" _What? Why? 'S the warmest place on base!"_

" _Because I look so ugly," voice so sincerely dismayed Han couldn't even laugh at her delirium, certainly didn't laugh when she continued, "and I want you to think I'm pretty."_

He'd never told her she'd said that, but he'd never forgotten it, either, thinking it one of the funniest things she'd ever said. He knew Leia wasn't above worrying over her appearance—she wasn't vein by any means, and judged beings on character rather than by any physical attributes—but hell, who didn't want to look nice, feel like they looked nice? But so damn funny, because she'd been white as a ghost, puking violently into a bucket he'd gotten for her, drenched in sweat—and Han had never once thought her unattractive. 'Pretty,' he laughed to himself, even now, with Leia as his wife. As if he'd ever thought her _just_ pretty. And hell if that hadn't bounced around his head for weeks after on Hoth _—she cares what you think of her, she wants to be attractive to you, she's got feelings for you, she does—_

"Well," he'd prodded, pulled from his reverie and kissing her head again. "Look on the bright side, Sweetheart. You get to relax under the covers with Roxi while I make you this mouthwatering soup, and you don't gotta hear Dodonna's voice for a few days, _and_ you got a gorgeous guy like me keeping you company."

Leia had made a noise that could only be described as dubious.

"'S not so bad, right?"

Shaking her head and wiping her eyes discretely, Leia had shuffled back to bed.

The first time had been a little too easy, he had to admit. But after he'd sent her back to bed the second time, Han really had thought she'd finally accepted that she needed to get some sleep.

Which was why, stirring the now delicious-smelling soup on the cooktop, Han was disbelieving to hear the shuffle of slippered feet and look up to see her creeping out of the hallway. Her robe and fluffy white blanket were back, tissue box in one hand and mug in the other, a pillow tucked under her arm.

"Leia!" he cried in frustration, setting down his stirring spoon. "Get! In! Bed!"

Leia fixed her glassy eyes on him, a frown tugging at her lips.

"I just wanted—"

Han shook his head.

"No!" he argued, jabbing a finger at her. _Give it up, Sweetheart, please!_ "I'll get you what you wanted, and you'll go lie down and be cooperative so you can get better, got it?"

Leia's frown deepened.

"But—"

"No! No, Leia! No buts! Don't make me comm Chewie—you know he'd guard your door! Or your brother! Huh? Maybe he could use some of that mumbo jumbo on you to make you go to sleep!"

Leia stared at him, unmoving, with her blankets and her tissues and her red nose. She raised her eyebrows.

"I was saying," she began, "that I came out here to lie on the couch," she gestured towards the sofa, not far from the kitchen island where Han stood cooking, their open-concept kitchen and living room spacious but by no means palatial, "because I _wanted_ a 'gorgeous guy like you' to keep me company."

Leia stared, sabacc face intact.

"Unless that offer no longer stands, flyboy?"

How the hell did she manage to sound so prim and so smug and so damn pleased with herself when she was so sick she could hardly speak?

Han winced.

"Oh," he muttered. "Well... huh."

Leia smirked and shuffled over to the couch, collapsing there into her little nest of blanket, and Han grinned, looking back down at the soup. Leia turned on the holo but turned the volume down low—one of the Corellian soaps they watched.

"Well, figured it was only a matter of time," Han teased, unspeakably pleased with this turn of events. "Knew you'd have to admit I'm gorgeous one of these days, Princess."

Over on the couch, he could see that Leia's eyes were closed, but there was a soft smile on her lips. Roxi had found her way onto the couch, too, and was lying loyally at Leia's feet.

"Didn't want your head to get too big, hotshot," she whispered, voice very quiet, like it was too sore for anything more than a whisper. Wordlessly, Han grabbed for the kettle, intent on making her more soothing honeyed tea.

He grinned with anticipation.

"That so?" he asked, mock-pensive. "Well that's kinda funny, Your Worship, since I _know_ how much you like the _other_ parts of me that are big—"

As he'd planned, Leia's eyes shot open, and she caught Han in a look that was equal parts scandal and hilarity, delighted even in her exhaustion and discomfort. She opened her mouth as though to engage, to tease him back and enter into one of the playful exchanges they both loved so much, but seemed to think better of it, to realize finally the reality of her sore throat, her throbbing temples, her desire to rest quietly. She closed her eyes again, pale face now just the tiniest bit rosy with color—not fever-flush but beguiling blush, and Han chuckled over the soup.

"Scoundrel," Leia whispered, still with her eyes closed, still with that little smile. "I'm supposed to be sleeping."

"Damn right you are," Han agreed, immensely relieved. For the next several minutes he stood in the kitchen, stirring their lunch, lifting steaming spoonfuls to his lips to taste and determine its readiness, adding in more spices, stirring again. The sight of Leia bundled up on the couch was indescribably reassuring—allowing herself to rest, a respite, finally being as kind and understanding and gracious with herself and with her body as she was with him, was with others.

And how she'd come shuffling out to lie on the couch because she'd wanted to be closer to him. Well.

Han loved Leia inside and out, it was true, but he also knew that she loved him as wholly in return. He knew it a million times over, and never doubted it. Still though he found moments like this one where the knowledge warmed him, humbled him, delighted him. Two years of marriage so far but still sometimes it felt new, felt as exhilarating as the first times. _Loves me, yeah, huh, she loves me. How 'bout that?_ Something as mundane as making her soup, as watching her transfer her tissues and blankets to be nearer to him—never in his hard youth would he have imagined a future like this, but fuck, if it wasn't better than his wildest dreams.

Finally, Han ladled soup into bowls for the two of them and walked over to set them down on the kaffe table. Leia was breathing deeply and slowly—through her mouth, he grinned, 'count of how stuffed up she was. He was tempted to just let her sleep—she could eat when she woke, and he'd been wanting her to rest all day—but she must not have been out completely, and her eyes flickered open.

"Soup's ready."

She sat up slowly, and he handed her her bowl. Instead of eating however she cradled it in her lap and gazed down at it, brow furrowed as though in thought—another thing he loved, that look she got when something got her gears turnin'—and for one wild moment Han was afraid he'd somehow botched the food.

But then as he sat down beside her, Leia looked up and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Han," she whispered, wincing at the sound of her own voice, already raspy with laryngitis, now even hoarser after her brief nap. She nuzzled against his shirt. "Thank you for taking care of me."

Han leaned his head against hers.

"Yeah, well, would'a left you to your own devices, Worshipfulness, but Chewie and Luke would've been pissed, so..."

Leia sighed contentedly against his shoulder—as best she could, anyway, in her congestion.

"I'm the worst patient in the galaxy, aren't I?" she asked, now practically boneless against him.

"Who, you? Nah, 'm sure there's way worse out there..."

Leia reached for his hand with the one that wasn't keeping her soup steady, and Han ran his thumb over hers, reflecting on the antics of the morning, over how much he loved her even when she was driving him nuts, thought with profound affection of her blanket-clad office stakeout and of her relocation to the couch. But then he thought again about when she'd been sick on Hoth, and he thought of the time _he'd_ gotten sick on base, and how she'd never cooked in her life but she'd tried to make _him_ soup, and he thought of holding her on the way to Bespin, and of how she'd nursed him back to health after the carbonite, and how they'd clung to each other after Endor, each grappling with so many scars, so many insecurities—new and old. How they'd slowly revealed to one another all their wounds and afflictions, how they'd reassured and soothed. Thought of their marriage, their teamwork, their devotion and support.

 _Thank you for taking care of me.'_

He thought of hauling her on top of the garbage in the trash compactor, thought of flying back to the battle of Yavin to save her life. He thought of her fierce defense of him after to High Command. Thought of all those countless missions, of guarding each other's lives.

Seemed to him they'd been taking care of each other since day one. Han wrapped his arm around Leia and drew her blanket further up over her shoulder.

He never planned to stop.


End file.
